


breathe

by Anonymous



Series: a series of sad events [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Cold, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lowercase, Muteness, Paranoia, Unreliable Narrator, Warm, but cold and warm, like the kill and live images, not actually done, oh i will project onto tommy So Much, only mentions of it, rubs my hands together evilly, what listening to arms tonite on loop does to a mf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28932852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: tommy checks each one of their channels to see if they're live-- they're not. he double-checks and triple-checks and reloads each page once, twice, and three times more, just to make sure.pulling up the discord window again, his heart hammers in his chest almost painfully.he should join. he should talk to them.he really needs to be distracted, at the very least. before he does something he'll regret forever.
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: a series of sad events [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122038
Comments: 7
Kudos: 539
Collections: Anonymous





	breathe

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully you checked the tags, but just in case, a few trigger warnings:  
> self-harm (the act itself is not done, but it almost is)  
> stress-induced muteness  
> implied emotional repression

* * *

it's around 2 am when tommy is lain against the bathroom floor, a sharpener blade discarded next to his hand. he hadn't done anything ( _ yet _ , a voiceless echo in the back of his mind whispers), and the tears on his face have long since dried upon his skin.

his arms are cold. his hands are even colder. the tile flooring is cold to the touch, and he's been laying here for quite a while.

he doesn't remember what happened exactly, for him to be strewn across the ground like this-- and that is terrifying to him, truly, almost more terrifying than the fact that he had nearly slit his skin. what was he doing?

no-- really, _what_ was he doing?

a broken plastic shell for a sharpener lays discarded underneath his desk.

the ground is still cold. a chill runs down his spine, and tommy shivers, reddened, puffy eyes closing shut as he moves his chilled, shaking (unmarked) arms to wrap around himself. he wonders how he should handle what just happened.

he wonders if someone else would be better at handling it for him. he doesn't want to think too hard about it, not really-- maybe someone else could help distract him, or, or help him understand how the hell he was supposed to act normally after...

after what?

tommy's eyes flutter open, and with a broken sigh, he shuffles himself up against the bathroom door, using it to help push himself upwards to his feet.

he isn't wearing any socks. the tile is freezing beneath his feet. he doesn't care.

when he makes his way to his room, into his chair, not bothering to turn on any lights, the first thing he does is open discord. his foot makes contact with a broken piece of plastic from the mess he'd swept under there, and with a shuttering inhale, he brings his legs up on his chair, resting his head in between them. he looks silly-- it almost distracts him, if even for a second.

wilbur and phil are in a call together, in their mini group with tubbo and techno. he almost cries in relief, cursor hovering over the "join" button, before halting-- what if one of them was live? he couldn't just go on there and humiliate himself, or make them stop just so he could--

he stops that train of thought. not everything is for a stream, he tells himself. breathe. it's fine.

tommy checks each one of their channels to see if they're live-- they're not. he double-checks and triple-checks and reloads each page once, twice, and three times more, just to make sure.

pulling up the discord window again, his heart hammers in his chest almost painfully.

he should join. he should talk to them.

he really needs to be distracted, at the very least. before he does something he'll regret forever.

he already regrets so, so much already. who's to say what'll happen if he actually goes through with it?

phil and wilbur's voices flood through his headphones-- it's not wild or chaotic like he'd usually expect, or, fuck, he doesn’t know, some wildly over-serious talk about how sand should or should not be in high-ediquette diners or something.

he doesn’t hear much of what they’re talking about, other than a few murmurs and faint tapping of keyboard keys, before wilbur and phil take notice of his presence.

“oh, tommy!” phil says, sounding pleasantly surprised. like he’s  _ happy _ to see tommy in their call. “what’s up, mate?”

“phil was just helping me out with some editing stuff real quick-- we’re not doing anything too exciting,” wilbur hums, the infrequent sounds of the clacking and tapping of a computer mouse and keyboard keys returning.

tommy is… quiet, he would say. or painfully mute, more like.  his throat is already squeezing in on itself before he can open his mouth, and he almost finds himself tearing up from it before muting himself quickly and taking a forced, painful gasp of air.

he’s been doing so  _ good _ \-- he hasn’t cried in so  _ long _ , he’s been doing  _ good _ . take a deep breath. breathe, he tells himself. everything is fine.  _ breathe. _

he doesn’t realize phil and wilbur had gently called his name until a few seconds have passed  _ after _ they spoke, and he takes a few more choked breaths before unmuting.

“heyyy, guys,” he chokes out, hoping,  _ praying _ , his voice doesn’t sound like it’s being pushed through and out his throat. “i-- um.”

“you all good, tommy?” wilbur asks quietly.

and isn’t  _ that _ the question for the ages? he accidentally lets out a choked little sound, and both wilbur and phil go silent-- he’s glad no-one’s camera is on. he doesn’t want to see them staring at him.

“...tommy?” phil prods, gently,  _ kindly _ . an invitation for him to listen. an invitation to tell.

he knows it’ll only get more and more difficult the further he stops himself from talking, so he breathes in the most silent gasp he possibly can, and promptly cuts off the start of a sentence from wilbur’s end.

“i was--” he begins, and it’s  _ hard _ . the rest of his sentence comes out as a rasp, spit out of his mouth painfully and chokingly. “i was going to hurt myself.”

the knot in his throat doesn’t loosen-- if anything, it tightens, and he swears for a few good seconds that he couldn’t breathe.  he hears phil inhale slowly, shakily. he doesn’t hear anything from wilbur’s end, and that-- that scares him.

“are you safe, right now?” wilbur’s voice cuts through his worries, strained but calm and firm.

he barely registers the question before ducking his head and looking at the broken sharpener underneath his desk. he thinks of its blade he’d left on the floor of his bathroom-- he thinks about how easy it would be to leave the call and go back to the chilling tile flooring.

he thinks of red patterns on his skin-- he nearly gags.

“no,” he whispers. he finds it’s easier to whisper-- it doesn’t strain his throat any more than it already was. it doesn’t get rid of that strain either, though.

he sees phil mute for barely more than a second. it does nothing to help the painful hold on his voice. he tries choking out something, anyways.

“i’m sor--” he croaks, before phil’s voice gently interrupts him.

“tommy,” phil begins, and to tommy’s horror, his voice sounds barely kept together. “we’re not-- we’re not going to be  _ upset _ at you. we  _ aren’t _ upset at you, ok? thank you  _ so much _ for coming to us, alright? we’re right here for you. we’re not gonna go away anytime soon.”

tommy… isn’t sure what to make of that. the clench of his throat eases up, if only a little, and he inhales as much air as he can.

“phil’s right,” wilbur says. there’s no sound of keyboard keys being tapped or computer mouse buttons being clicked. “it’s scary and it’s hard to reach out about things like this, but it’s gonna be okay, alright?”

“o-- okay,” tommy whispers, and that’s all he really can say.

“do you think you can go to throw away anything you can use to hurt yourself with?” wilbur questions gently, not unkindly. understandingly.

tommy, once again, thinks of cold bathroom flooring and discarded sharpened edges laying on the floor. he remembers how quiet his house is at night, and he tries to tell himself he can leave for a minute to do himself a favor (maybe? possibly.) and get rid of what he’d nearly used to cut himself.

he can’t imagine it, no matter how hard he tries. it’s too easy, scarily so, to just give up and lay across the freezing ground, and let the cold seep into his limbs as he holds a blade loosely in his hand.

“no,” tommy chokes out, and he swallows before trying to choke out more. “i don’t-- it’s too  _ quiet _ , and- and  _ cold _ \--”

“it’s alright, tommy, it’s okay,” phil hushes him, wilbur humming in agreement with him.

“you don’t need to right now tommy. it’s okay. we’re staying right here.” wilbur murmurs. “we can talk about it more when you’re ready, alright? we can play some pubg, or minecraft, if you want. whatever you need to make you feel better.”

and tommy thinks to himself-- why are they doing this? he thinks about old friends and online forums and reddit posts that spat on the mere idea of self-harm.

he didn’t  _ expect _ them to be angry, exactly, but he wasn’t expecting gentle words and questions that didn’t probe too far and comfort. he wasn’t expecting to tell them at all, either, yet look where he was now.

he reaches over and loosely grabs hold of a blanket leaning off his bed, wrapping it around his shoulders. the knot in his throat unties, and his cheeks dampen with silent tears.

it’s warm.

  
  


“minecraft?” he rasps, shuddering with held back sobs. “in-- in a little bit, though. please?”

“of course, tommy,” wilbur hums, a faint strumming of a guitar filling his headphones in a mindless tune.

“whenever you’re ready, toms,” phil adds quietly, a kind smile audible through his words alone.

* * *


End file.
